A Message for Sherlock Holmes
by Chloe Winchester
Summary: "John!" His arms were chained above his head, tape over his mouth, his undershirt drenched in sweat and blood, naked from the waist down, trembling. "John, please, wake up!" "No! No more! SHERLOCK, HELP ME!" JOHNLOCK M for violence and language.
1. Chapter 1

**A Message for Sherlock Holmes**

"John!" Sherlock moved as fast as he could, reaching the doctor at what felt like a snail's pace. John's arms were chained above his head, tape over his mouth, his undershirt drenched in sweat and blood, naked from the waist down, trembling. "John, open your eyes. Look at me, John." He carefully peeled the gag away, stomach sinking. "Wake up!" He demanded.

The instant the soldier's eyes opened he fought to get away, eyes closed, whimpering and shaking his head. "No, no, please! No more! SHERLOCK, HELP ME!"

"John! JOHN!" He bellowed, commanding his attention, fear and desperation in his all-knowing eyes. "It's me. I'm here. You're safe now." John relaxed, opening his wounded eyes, which overflowed with tears almost instantly.

"Sh-Sherlock?" He chattered, breath visible in the freezing air.

"Shh, I'm here, John," he cradled his cheek, standing close to him to cover him in case Lestrade was closer than he thought. John leaned into his caress, sobbing, still shaking from head-to-toe.

"_Sherlock…_" He moaned. "Don't let him hurt me, please."

"I won't. You're safe now. He won't hurt you, I swear." The detective looked up at the chains binding him, chains that left him standing on his toes, his wrists bleeding from the weight. "God, John." He yanked the coat from his shoulders, wrapping it strategically around John's waist, twisting it so the buttons would fasten and hold it in place before wrapping an arm around him and hoisting him up. The doctor sobbed in relief, tremors wracking his small frame. "Shh, shh, I've got you. I'll get you down, just hang on."

"Thank you," he breathed. Sherlock felt the knot that was his heart twist even tighter.

"Don't thank me, John. Not for this. Shh…" He cupped his cheek again, grounding him. "I'm here, I'm here." Footsteps echoed from the hall; Lestrade finally deciding to show up. "IN HERE!" Sherlock bellowed, an edge of desperation in his voice. John shrunk away from the noise, hiding his face in his arm and Sherlock's shoulder. "Shh, almost over. It's almost over."

John whimpered when he felt foreign hands graze against his own as they picked the locks holding him there. He cried out when the fell away, going limp in Sherlock's arms, who caught him and held him gracefully.

"We called an ambulance," Lestrade said.

"No." Sherlock shook his head, holding John close. "No, if I do that he'll find him again. He wants me to take him home and see what he's done. If I don't I risk losing him again. Any of those doctors could work for him. I won't take that chance." John whimpered again, pain coursing through him like fire in a high wind. "I need a blanket and a car home," he said.

His legs were shaking, the adrenaline taking advantage of him, causing his grip to shift on the doctor. He gently lowered him to the floor, gently resting his head in his lap and holding his hand.

"Home," John begged, looking so young with his naked eyes and vulnerable expression. Sherlock nodded, swallowing a large lump in his throat.

"That's where we're going. We're going home, John. I'll take care of you there. It's alright. Shh…" He soothed, stroking his hair. He didn't know who held the blanket out to him, he simply snatched it away, wrapping it around him and cautiously moving the coat to his shoulders, being sure that no one saw him.

"Car's out front," Lestrade said. Once again, he gave no response. He stood, scooping John up with him, the adrenaline aiding him again as he darted outside, whispering comforts in his doctor's ear, telling him over and over that he'd be alright.

He didn't have time to explain what happened to Mrs. Hudson. He barely had the sanity to nod when she told him to call for her if they needed anything.

What he needed was to get John clean and warm and safe. He lied him down on his bed, combing his fingers through his hair, shushing him softly.

"It's alright. You're home now, shh. I've got you, John. I'm here." He closed his eyes, leaning into his hand again. "Let's get the blood off of you, alright? Close your eyes." He obliged, shaking softly.

Sherlock slipped away, still talking to him so he wouldn't be afraid, running the bath, making sure the water was warm. If it was too hot it'd burn his cold skin.

He came back in the room, touching his face again. "Come on, John. Shh…" He peeled the blanket away from him, wincing. The blood and wounds were so much worse in the light. He tugged it around his waist, leaving him with dignity, not wanting to deny him this comfort yet. He lifted him out of his coat, edging him out of it. He tried taking the shirt away, finding it stuck to his skin, causing him to whimper at the tiniest movements. "Alright, alright, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, John. Hush…I'm sorry. I know, I'll fix it."

He wasn't sure if he could.

He lifted John into a standing position, cradling his head in his chest, supporting him completely as he half-dragged him to the bathroom.

He eased the blanket off of him, wincing when he sobbed, hating himself for this. "Shh, I won't hurt you. I won't hurt you, John. Shh…" He looked down, trying to find his footing before getting him into the tub.

He slowly eased him into the water, watching as it turned pinker and pinker as more of him was submerged. John hissed, his wounds searing as the water touched them, like acid.

"No, no," he moaned, shaking his head, eyes still closed.

"Shh, I know. I know, it's almost over. Hush."

He let the water soften and loosen the fabric of the undershirt before he carefully took it away.

It was like a curtain being lifted, another twisted part of Moriarty's game. This was beyond personal. This was a show, a display of what he'd done and what he could do in the future. The shirt had been put back on after all of this was done.

Words. They were carved into John's torso, deep and bright with infection. His stomach rolled.

The first word was right where his sternum met his diaphragm, stretching across his ribs.

_SHERLOCK'S. . ._

The next was on his lower belly, easily hidden if he'd been wearing underwear.

_PET_

He swallowed the bile that rose to his throat, tears stinging his eyes. His John, his sweet, beautiful John so patient and gentle. His loyal friend that would go to the ends of the earth for him, kill and die for him.

And it was those reasons that Moriarty put those words there.

"Oh John…" He almost moaned, kissing his forehead, holding him close for a moment. He clung back, face in his neck. "I'm so sorry, John. This is my fault, I'm so sorry." He didn't answer, only cried quietly. "I'll fix this. There has got to be someone that can make sure this doesn't scar. I won't make you live with this, John." Still no answer. He did respond, however. He touched his thigh with trembling fingers, shaking, fresh sobs in his throat.

More words slightly distorted by the water. One on the inside each of his legs, far too close to something too private for Sherlock's liking. His knot of a heart clenched again.

_SLAVE_

_WHORE_

"John," he sniffed, voice cracking. He kissed his temple, so hurt, so afraid for him.

John kept his eyes closed, leaning into Sherlock's touches as they came, tears seeping from his eyes when the pain or memory was too much.

Sherlock carefully examined the raw and blistered skin on his wrists, the burns on his fingertips; signs of electrocution.

A particularly violent patch of blistered, oozing skin just below his clavicle caught his attention. He looked closer, at the shape and the visible words in the seared flesh.

"Dog tags," he breathed. "He branded you with your dog tags." John nodded, whimpering, crying harder. Sherlock reached into the water, hugging him close, placing a tender kiss on his lips. "Does he still have them?" He shrugged. Sherlock kissed his hair, setting him back down and continued washing the blood away.

At least half an hour later it was all gone, his body and hair clean. The pain was still there, unable to be washed away.

"Come on, John," Sherlock whispered, sickened by what had been done to him. He reached up in an almost child-like manner, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck, shivering as the cool air caused his skin to twinge with gooseflesh. He whimpered, unable to stop the sound. Sherlock quickly retrieved a towel, covering him, kissing him again. "I'm here. It'll be alright."

He still wasn't so sure.

He got him dry, leaving the towel around him and draping his robe over him as well before resting him on the bed. The disinfecting and bandages came now.

It was agonizing for both of them. Sherlock kept his own sobs locked in his chest, listening to John moan and cry, petting his damp hair as he worked, his heart breaking when he covered himself with trembling hands.

"Shh, shh, I know, I know," he whispered, hastily draping the robe over him. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry John." He carefully rolled him over, knowing there was more damage on his back.

Another word had been carved into his left shoulder.

_WEAKNESS_

A choked sound escaped his throat, the impulse to smooth John's hair consuming him, though the gesture would never be enough to make up for this. Not this.

_BITCH_

It blazed from his lower back.

_DOWN_

_FALL_

The words were clawed into the back of his legs, separating the word.

_Sherlock's pet. Sherlock's slave. Sherlock's whore. Sherlock's weakness. Sherlock's bitch. Sherlock's downfall,_ he ticked them off in his head, crying now without being able to help it. "Forgive me," he pleaded, knowing he didn't deserve it.

He got him dressed, warm, comfortable and fully clothed for the first time in eight days. He changed the sheets, wanting to burn them after looking at all the blood, and tucked him in, gently kissing his forehead.

"Lay with me?" He whispered, begging. He cradled him close, gingerly placing his lips on his bruised cheek, mindful of the split in his lip. "I-I forgive you, Sherlock."

"You shouldn't," he said immediately.

"But I do," he whispered. He shook his head, burying his face in the soft gold of his hair. "Don't let me go, Sherlock," he begged. "Please."

"I'll stay as long as you need me," he promised. "Sleep, John."

* * *

><p>"That's right, <em>SCREAM<em>!" The cackling filled his ears, the shrieks of pain stifled by the tape, tears of agony streaming down his cheeks. "He can't hear you," he laughed, taking a fistful of his hair. "He cannot hear you. You're mine right now, do you understand me? MINE!"

He touched the soaking sponge to his arm again, causing him to convulse, screaming and writhing as it burned his body. He trembled uncontrollably when it stopped, whimpering and turning away from him.

"Aw, is little John afraid of me?" He didn't move, too terrified to even try. He laughed. "Now isn't that adorable?"

He set the device down, shutting off the battery and plucking a knife off the table. "Alright, doctor," he grinned, skipping over to him and forcing his head back. "I think we need to send your lover a message in all this, don't we?" He nodded. John trembled. "I thought you'd agree."

He fell to the ground with a wet thud, shaking, too weak to fight or move.

The villain kicked him onto his back, straddling him between his legs. John shook his head, eyes pleading so desperately for the pain to stop, his body so battered, humming painfully with the anguish he was catching his breath from. He writhed weakly when his undershirt was taken and tossed across the room. "Oh, don't be pathetic."

He screamed into the gag when the knife bit into the fabric of his shorts, tearing easily when Moriarty tugged, taking them away.

"_No, no, nohoh_!" John begged, shaking his head. Moriarty nodded, eyes dripping with malice, wanting to inflict as much pain as physically possible.

"Yes, yes, yehes!" he mocked. He hauled him up by his hair, slamming him against the concrete wall by his throat as a faceless, nameless man locked him back into place. "So vulnerable," he grinned, the tip of the knife grazing his skin, nicking here and there as he gasped for breath. John whimpered, tears pouring down his face.

Jim eyed lower, cocking a brow. "No _wonder _Sherlock wants you, eh?" He giggled, giggles that slowly turned into loud, barking laughter. "Or has he still not plucked up the nerve to fuck you yet?" John shut his eyes. "Oh, so he _has_, has he?" He chortled. "Wonderful. That just makes this all the more easy."

* * *

><p>Sherlock woke to John screaming, sweat pouring down his face, words lost in the guttural sounds ripping from his throat.<p>

"JOHN!"

He gasped as if doused by cold water, clinging to him instantly, sobbing into his neck. "Sher-Sherlock," he hiccupped. "God, Sherlock, no more! No more!"

"Shh, hush, hush. It's alright, darling. You're safe. You're safe now," he soothed, rocking him, the lump in his throat harder to swallow now. "Shh…" His voice was starting to break, the sobs breaking through. "Shh, it's alright," he stammered. "I've got you."

He started crying with him, wanting to take all of the pain from him, hating himself for letting this happen.

Hours passed before he calmed and John slept again, vowing to make sure another nightmare didn't take him away again.

He jolted awake from a very short doze, another presence bringing him on edge, his grip tightening on his lover possessively, reaching for the gun in the side table all in the blink of an eye.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson gasped, her hands up. "It's me, it's alright," she said. He relaxed, breathing hard.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Little paranoid." He looked at her, frowning.

_Chewing inside of lip; holding something back. Fighting tears, worried, scared. _"Mrs. Hudson, what is it?"

"I think you need to see for yourself, dear," she breathed.

His heart started to pound again.

He carefully lied John onto the pillows, tucking the blanket around his shoulders, pecking his cheek before standing and following the landlady to the sitting room.

A knife was stuck into the wall right beside the smiley face, still caked in blood…with John's dog tags dangling off the blade. Beneath it, a word.

_DONE?_


	2. Chapter 2

**-Back by popular demand ;) Enjoy.-**

**A Message for Sherlock Holmes**

He couldn't let John see this. It was bad enough Mrs. Hudson had to in her not-a-house-keeper-just-a-concerned-friend-that-wants-to-help tea making. He stared only for another moment, photographing the scene and storing it in his mind.

Nothing else in the flat was disturbed. He checked John's laptop, his room and his own violin just in case. The last thing he needed was for the doctor to find something to bring everything back in his attempt to get well.

"Sherlock, what's happened?" Mrs. Hudson asked, sounding terrified.

"A very twisted soul with nothing better to do decided to harm everything good in this black world," he said simply, tugging his gloves on and yanking the blade from the wall, catching the dog tags in the process.

"And by that you mean…Dr. Watson?" She said softly. The genius shut his eyes, nodding once.

"Yes. I mean John," he said quietly. "I need to talk to my brother."

"I'll put the kettle on." Still the only thing she could think to do.

_7:16 a.m. _

_I need your help._

_7:17 a.m. (Mycroft)_

_Need another clearance pass to ruin my name with?_

_7:17 a.m._

_No. I need you to find someone that I need to kill._

_7:19 a.m. (Mycroft)_

…

_7:19 a.m._

_Would I bother talking to you if I didn't absolutely need your help? I'll beg if I have to. It's important._

_7:24 a.m. (Mycroft)_

_Who and why?_

_7:24 a.m._

_He hurt John, Mycroft._

_7:25 (Mycroft)_

_Tell me what I can do._

* * *

><p>"You know, I'm not sure why you wear the dad jumpers all the time," Jim remarked as John raggedly gasped for air. He set to slicing him up again, listening to him scream, noting that he would have to apply more tape soon, what with all the moisture leaking from his eyes lowering the quality of the adhesive. "You've got a hot little body here, doctor."<p>

More screaming, shaking and pleading. "I'd bet Sherlock would simply _faint_ if he saw you wearing something tighter than a thrift shop sweater that once belonged to a husky father of three."

John shut his eyes, whimpering when he felt hands on his stomach, feeling, testing, probing. "Muscular too. Looks like that Afghanistan tour did you some good."

He tried to distance himself from the horror, from him, thinking of Sherlock. His arms, his touch, his kiss, his—

"NO!" He jumped, feeling the blade at his throat. "No, John, you don't get to hide from me by thinking about your little fuck boy."

The psychotic brought the knife down in a shallow jab to finish the ellipses, eliciting a sharp cry from John, falling back into tears.

"Oh wait, that's right…" he ventured, giggling. "_He_ fucks _you_, doesn't he?" He cried, ignoring him. "God, you just give me so much to work with!" He laughed, his face serious less than a second later. "_LOOK AT ME_!"

John cried out, opening his eyes at the demand, so afraid. Jim smiled pleasantly, turning the knife over in his hands. "Tell me, doctor, does he fuck you? Does he throw you against a wall and make you beg for him? Huh? I'll bet he does. I'll bet you like it, too, don't you? You like it when he fucks you so hard you can't stand the next morning, DON'T YOU?"

He stared at him, shaking all over, in enough pain to blind him. Moriarty lashed out, slicing his arm, pain erupting from the spot, making the doctor scream again. "_ANSWER ME, OR I'LL GUT YOU RIGHT HERE_!"

"YES!" John screamed, nodding. Jim laughed, running his fingers over his cheek, laughing when he shrunk away.

"Such a good little soldier…" He cooed, ripping his dog tags from his neck. John whimpered, eyes trained on them. "I think everyone should know how _good_ of a soldier you are, don't you?" He wandered back to the table filled with devices. He picked up the blow torch, sparking it to life and carefully heating the metal.

John shook so hard the chains made music above his head, teeth vibrating together, his naked body slicked with sweat and blood, so cold. He shook his head, pleading.

"Aw, aren't you cute?" The villain chuckled. "Scared little thing. Can't wait 'til Sherlock gets a look at you." He hooked the tag onto a thin metal rod, still heating as he came toward him. John struggled, fruitlessly trying to get away, his sobs loud and stifled by the gag.

"NO, NOHOH!" He begged. "PLEHEASE, NO!"

"Now don't squirm, or it'll be crooked," he scolded.

"_NO! SHERLOOOOOOCK!" _

* * *

><p>The detective stepped into the room, rubbing his temples, slipping the phone into his pocket. He sat beside John, rubbing his forehead, thumbing his cheek, the bruises a constant reminder of what he'd done.<p>

"I'm sorry, John," he breathed. "I'm sorry for everything he's done to you. It's my fault he hurt you." John sighed softly.

He leaned into his touch, most likely being haunted by a storm of nightmares. His face was ashen, skin hot and clammy. He trembled slightly, even under the comforters, cold.

_Fever,_ the genius thought sadly, touching him gently. "Mrs. Hudson?" He called, testing to see if she was still occupying the flat or not. She poked her head in a moment later. "Medicine, please. For his fever." She nodded and left.

"John," he whispered, kissing his forehead. "John, wake up." He shook him lightly. "Wake up now."

His eyes snapped open, shaking slightly, eyes bloodshot when he looked at him.

"I just need to get you some medicine and break that fever," he said gently.

"Sherlock," he croaked, coughing lightly.

"Shh, relax—"

"N-no, Sherlock," he offered him his arm, lips shaking. He frowned, wishing more than anything that he could take the pain and fear from his sweet face. He gently took his arm, rolling back his sleeve.

Track marks, so small he hadn't worried about them, his attention mainly taken by the words that had been carved into his skin. "He drugged you…" He breathed. "Is that how he got you so weak?" He nodded, lips trembling. He fell against Sherlock's chest, not speaking, letting Sherlock's long, wiry arms envelop him. "Shh…hush, hush." He rocked him, doing his best to convey that he wasn't alone. "I won't let go unless you ask me to," he swore.

"Thank you," he whispered, eyes closed.

"Do you have any ideas as to what he gave you?" He whispered. John shook his head.

"Maybe GHB," he whispered. "I don't know. I can't stop shaking…"

Sherlock closed his eyes, kissing his hair. "I know, I know, John. It'll pass, I promise. It's just withdrawal symptoms, you'll be fine." John clutched the fabric of his shirt so tight his fingers hurt, knuckles white.

Mrs. Hudson bustled in with pills and a glass of water, which John accepted graciously, swallowing fresh sobs when his hand shook so hard Sherlock had to steady the cup for him. The land-lady said nothing. She simply smiled gently, patting his shoulder and nodding to Sherlock before leaving with tears in her eyes.

"It hurts," he breathed. "Everything hurts, Sherlock. I just want it to stop!"

"I know," he assured. "I know. That'll pass as well, John. The pain is only temporary."

_And it's my fault_, he added silently, knowing John would only lie to him and tell him otherwise. _Every solitary ounce of pain he's experiencing is my fault. I might as well have put that needle in his arm myself, cut those words into his skin, using the one thing he had to keep him strong and sure and twisted it into a nightmare he may have to live with for the rest of his life. I did this. These tears, this pain, this fear, this agony, all my doing. I'm responsible and he's cuddling me like I'm the only thing keeping him sane. God, John, why do you hold me so highly?_

"Stop it," he said suddenly. He stared at him.

"Stop what?"

"Stop blaming yourself for what he did. It's not your fault," he pleaded. "Just don't, Sherlock."

"But it _is_ my fault. He hurt you to get to me. How is it not my fault, John?" He asked, desperate for an answer, for reprieve.

"Because I said it isn't, now will you please just…just hold me."

Another jab to a bruised heart. It was so much easier when he didn't feel anything for anyone. Then along comes John and all he wanted was to be near him, to _kiss_ him. He'd never had the urge to kiss anyone before and, and this sweet, peaceful man turns his world upside down. It's romantic, if you think about it. It's also what put him here.

John slept again, fitfully, the withdrawals taking a massive toll on his body, causing agony every time he moved. His fever scored and raged on, setting his skin ablaze without end. He shook with chills and tremors, having to take off the sweater and his undershirt once they were soaking wet, leaving Sherlock to sit beside the bed, fingers steeped, staring at the bandages, counting scars.

_6:49 p.m. (Lestrade)_

_We found it._

_6:49 p.m._

_I need to be alone with it._

_6:50 p.m. (Lestrade)_

_I'm not sure that's a good idea._

_6:51 p.m._

_Either I'm alone or I'll take it from you without you even noticing._

_6:53 p.m. (Lestrade)_

_Fine. Anderson's done with it._

_6:53 _

_That idiot won't find a damn thing. I'll be there shortly._

He leaned over to John, dabbing his face again with the cool cloth before pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. "Sleep, John. Sleep and you'll never know I was gone."

He slipped away, notifying Mrs. Hudson on his way out, dread and anxiety slowly creeping in to take over his senses.

* * *

><p>"Where?" Was all he said, not making eye contact with the detective-inspector.<p>

"Back here."

He led him to a back office often used for storage, away from the rest of the bull pen and rabble. A laptop sat on the table, humming softly with life, unaware of the contents it held. So easy to be a machine.

_Sometimes I wish I could be that again…_

"Leave," he ordered, seating himself in front of it. Lestrade left with a worried, fleeting look, knowing what was to follow wouldn't be pretty.

The consultant hit the play button and sat back.

The camera was set from above, giving a landscape look at the old building in front of him.

John hung unconscious on the wall diagonal from its position, a table about ten feet from him piled with horrendous looking tools and devices. Sherlock's chest tightened. The picture itself was crystal clear other than the hindrances black and white offered, leaving John far enough to see all of him, but close enough to capture every expression that would pass his features.

The soldier woke with a start, gasping awake, looking around frantically, confused. He groaned, glancing up at the head injury and the blood that had long-since dried. He shivered a little, becoming aware of the frigid air and his lack of clothing.

"He looks so small," Sherlock whispered.

John swallowed, staring down at his body, only clad in his undershirt and pants. His eyes ascended to the chains holding his already aching wrists. He fought, pulled at them, lifting himself up at one point in an effort to bend or break them.

"Don't," he said to nothing, as if John could hear him.

"Damn," John spat, breathing hard, clouds of fog forming from his labored breathing.

A door burst open out of sight, basking him in an artificial glow before a figure stood in the way. Sherlock knew who he was before he spoke.

"_Heeeeeeeeeeeeeere's JOHNNY!" _The criminal cackled.

Sherlock took a breath, and proceeded to watch everything.

Every

single

minute.

Tbc…


	3. Chapter 3

**-REWRITTEN** because I was greatly unsatisfied with the last draft. Hopefully you enjoy this one better, thank you!-

**A Message for Sherlock Holmes**

Sherlock shut the laptop when it was over, his eyes scratchy and tired, body exhausted. He uncurled from his body's position, joints aching, several limbs prickling with sleep at the sudden movements. His head was pounding, heart beating a ragged, worn, weary rhythm, vocal chords frozen, throat dry, save for the stone that had lodged itself there.

He stood, steadily putting on his coat. He tried his scarf, yanking it away when it felt constricting, hot, itchy and suffocating. He walked briskly down the hall, all surrounding noise whirling and sucking, blocking out anything else besides the white-noise. He stepped back to the bull-pen, wanting nothing, feeling nothing but numbness and cold radiating from the pieces of his broken heart.

"Sherlock!"

He stopped, rooted, swaying slightly at the sudden lack of motion. His nerves hummed, mind completely blank, nothing but what he'd just seen playing over and over and over again. "Did you learn anything?" Lestrade asked, snapping through his catatonic stupor.

"Nothing of use to you," he muttered, voice coming out in a rasp that echoed with his distance from them. Two more figures came through in the fog, familiar ones that sparked conditioned irritation.

"Something wrong, freak?" Donovan asked, smirking "Got a problem with someone messing with your sidekick? Or are you just upset someone has a one-up on you?"

Sherlock looked to Lestrade, meeting his eyes, both sharing a message filled of information that only few people were privy to. About him and John, their relationship, and whether he'd told his little "assistants" about it or not. It only took a few moments for him to understand it.

_He didn't tell them. Wasn't expecting that, _he thought with as much apathy to these three as he'd always felt.

"So you didn't learn anything?" Lestrade continued, urging, trying to get the subject away from John.

"No," he said, quieter than before.

"There wasn't much to learn in the first place," Anderson said, standoffish and breezy as usual, "unless we're doing a study on how John Watson screams."

It took a split second of blind rage for Sherlock to grab his collar and slam him against the opposite wall, seething, rage illuminating his eyes, boiling anger bubbling over into his snarl. "You listen to me you pathetic, insignificant bastard," he growled, his expression alone causing Anderson to freeze.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade interjected, tugging at his arm to break the iron grip he had on his throat.

"GET HIM OFF!" Sally screeched. Sherlock didn't hear, the blood rushing in his veins much too loud.

"If you ever, _ever_ mention the contents of that video _ever_ again then I will do precisely what Sally fears I will do and with a god damn smile on my face. You will _never_ speak of John that way again. _Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear_?" He waited for confirmation, squeezed and pressed harder on his throat, ready to throttle him if that's what it took.

"_Y-yes…_" He managed, choking. Sherlock released him, stepping away from them and making his way to the elevator in silence.

"AREN'T YOU GOING TO DO SOMETHING?" He vaguely heard Donovan's voice pierce through the shield his mind was so desperately trying to put up.

"And what would you like me to do?" He bellowed. "After what he's just watched happen I was surprised he didn't kill _me_."

"But-"

The door closed before he could hear anymore. He receded back into himself again, screams echoing in his ears that went unheard to the rest of the world. Somehow, without his knowledge or consciousness, he both hailed and got into a cab, staring at his hands, still so deep within himself he barely muttered out his address.

He was caught between rage and absolute agony, the emotions battling inside of him, letting a cool, numbing calm settle over him that would shatter at any moment. It took a full two minutes before he realized the car had stopped moving. He paid the grouchy cabbie and made his way to the flat, not knowing what would happen when he got inside.

He took off his coat, the motions well-practiced, robotic and without any sort of expression or feeling.

"Sherlock?" He heard Mrs. Hudson call, but he couldn't find the strength to speak to her.

The next blink he was standing in the sitting room, a cup of tea being pushed into his hand as his knees gave out and sent him into John's chair.

"…are you alright, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked, touching his shoulder to finally gain his attention. "You look like you've seen a ghost." He said nothing, only meeting her eyes for a brief moment. "Are you going to tell me where you ran off to? Gone all night, all day…"

He frowned, seeing a clock for the first time. He'd been gone more than a day.

"He's been asleep since you left. Woke with a nightmare last night and spent half an hour asking for you. I got him back down, though. Told him you'd be right back," she assured. "He conked right back out. I was just about to give him more medicine." He shook his head, taking the water and pills from her. "Or you can do it, that's alright too," she sighed. He stared through the doorway, knowing when he stepped through he'd see…he'd see him again. John.

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips, sadness in her eyes as she looked at his expression. She touched his arm. "Dr. Watson's strong, Sherlock. He'll get through this. With your help he'll get through this." She gave a comforting squeeze before she stepped away, waiting for him to go into the room before she left, still not knowing just what the consulting detective had been through.

John was sleeping peacefully, just as he was when he left him, lost in gentle sleep. He set the contents of his shaking hands down, tears flooding his eyes. He gently touched his cheek, thumb ghosting over a bruise. He slid his fingers through his hair, needing to touch him, needing to see the face of the brave man he'd just seen in that awful video. He sat beside him, knees giving out again. He kissed his cheek and his forehead, noting that his fever still had not gone in his absence.

He slowly fell over him, sobs overcoming him, slipping to the floor and his knees. "Forgive me," he breathed. "Forgive me…" John stirred, looking over at him, meeting his lips immediately when Sherlock dove for them, kissing him desperately.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" He croaked, allowing his cool hands to cradle his scorching cheeks. He couldn't say it, his soul heavy, heart torn.

"What he did to you…" He whispered. "God, John all those horrible things he did to you."

"What are you talking about?" He asked, so hoarse, so soft, so _weak._ "Sherlock?"

He gathered the doctor in his arms, heart aching even more when he saw tears in his own eyes. "There was a camera in the room with you, John. He sent it to the Yard and…"

"No," John breathed, shaking his head, paled and ashamed. "Sherlock-"

"Shh, it's alright," he said, cradling him close, crying into his hair. "Let me hold you, please." They stayed that way, silent, crying.

"I need to change your bandages," he whispered. John nodded, allowing himself to be eased from the safety of Sherlock's arms and left on the bed. Sherlock soothed to the best of his ability as he worked, the painkillers long run out. His eyes lingered over each wound, remembering in every crucial, horrible detail how they got there, how loud he screamed when he got them. "Damn it, John, when will you learn bravery and stupidity are equally consequential?"

"I'm sorry," he said in a small voice, looking just as tiny as his tone.

"Don't," Sherlock breathed, chastising himself for what he'd said. "I didn't mean…I meant that you…" He took a breath to steady himself, gently grazing his cheek with the back of his hand, anguish in his eyes. "If for some horrible, god forsaken reason…." Another steadying gulp of air. "If this happens to you again, you tell them whatever they want to know. Don't be concerned with how it will affect me. Don't protect me, John, for God's sake, keep yourself safe."

"Sherlock—"

"Please."

He was so desperate. He gave in, nodding sadly. "Okay."

He placed a steady kiss on his forehead, still holding his face.

He helped him get the pills and water down along with something mild to eat before holding him close again, allowing him to rest his head against his chest, rocking him gently. "Shh, shh…sleep. I'm here now. Shh…"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John breathed. "I didn't want to say those things, I didn't!"

"Shh, shh… don't. I know. It's alright. Shh."

John clung to the detective, burying his face in his neck to lose himself in him, to forget the pain, to forget that first moment when he heard that monster speak…

* * *

><p>"So!" Jim said brightly, rubbing his hands together with a loud smack, eyeing his new toy hungrily. "Where on earth should we start?" John glared at him, still tugging weakly at the chains above him. "Oh, such a stern, brave little soldier, aren't we?" He mocked, condescending him.<p>

"It won't work," John grunted.

"What won't?" He said, still grinning, daring him to say it.

"Trying to get Sherlock to come after me, it won't work," he growled.

"Oh," Jim said, nodding in understanding. "And why not? Because he's too smart, right? Too smart to fall for it? And why should he risk his life for you? After all, any friend of his should be willing to sacrifice himself, wouldn't they? And he'd be content with that, right? Too bad you're not his friend."

"Oh, I'm not?" He asked, exasperated, humoring him.

"No, no, even better." He turned his grin to him, immediately turning his insides to ice. "You're his lover."

He waited, letting the words sink in, watching the horror rise to his features as the blood left it. "You really think you two are that careful? God, the way you look at each other! Like no one else in the world exists. It's so cute it's disgusting!" He stepped over to the table of devices, running his fingers over them.

"It still won't work. He's figured you out before; he'll figure this out too!" He barked. Jim sighed.

"John, I wish you wouldn't be so mouthy. I'd like to torture you right away and not have to worry about shutting you up, so if you would be quiet…"

"You know I'm right!" He spat, trying to gain the upper-hand. It was impossible when your arms are chained over your head.

Jim sighed, growling. "Alright, if that's how you want it."

He snapped.

A faceless, nameless muscle of a man undid the chains and quickly bound his hands in a zip-tie far too tightly before tossing him to the ground like a sack of potatoes. He landed hard, the wind leaving his chest.

"Such worship you have for the man, don't you?" He said, sounding bored as he sauntered over to him. "A perfect little bitch for him, eh?" John said nothing, trying to look at him. "Just a little pathetic, don't you think?"

"No," he said firmly.

"Of course not."

Quicker than the doctor could blink, a leather-clad food collided with his jaw, turning him over on his stomach. "Because he's just so WONDERFUL, isn't he?" He bellowed, grinning wildly, assaulting his ribs. "Come now, John, tell me how _wonderful_ he is!" He squealed, taking a handful of his hair and striking his face over and over again. "Nothing? Nothing to say?"

"Fuck yo-"

Another kick to his chest, knocking the air out of his lungs again, choking him and cutting off the words.

"Tsk, tsk, manners, Dr. Watson," he clucked, still smiling. "I don't particularly like getting my hands dirty like this. But for something to be personal, I suppose I'll have to, won't I?"

The beating that followed was great, breaking and fracturing ribs, bruising him to the bone, leaving him heaving, sweating and black and blue when he was through.

Jim dusted off his hands and his suit, still looking bored. He snapped again.

John groaned as he was hauled off the floor, zip-tie snapped in an instant, the blade used to do it nicking his skin before he was thrown against the wall again, chains biting into his raw skin, tearing it.

"Now we can start the real fun," Jim giggled, dancing over to the table. John fell to his knees, the man hauling him up and throwing him against another table on the other side of the room. He was locked into place, his toes barely touching the concrete floor. His ankles were locked into place by metal that was somehow colder than the air around him. He whimpered against his will when the riding crop cracked down on the unfinished wood of the table.

"So, I have a question, Dr. Watson," he said, twirling it like a baton, skipping around happily. "Have you made The Virgin, well…_not_ a virgin?" John said nothing, hating this compromising position. He slapped him across the cheek with the device, the leather stinging his skin terribly. "Answer me." He shook his head. He clucked his tongue, shaking his head. "Now that's being awfully naughty. It's a simple question."

"No." He said firmly. Jim sighed.

"Well, if you want to be a bad boy then I'll punish you like one, won't I?" He gripped the waistband of his pants, giggling when John squirmed to get away from him.

"NO!" He growled. Jim laughed, yanking them down to bare his skin to the freezing, open room.

"Answer me, have you fucked him or not?" He said, brushing the device against the backs of his legs. John stayed silent, the humiliation overwhelming, but not enough to stifle his pride, not yet.

The device cracked across his bare flesh, stinging just as harshly as the crack of a whip. He cried out, arching away from him with nowhere to go.

"I don't have all day, doctor."

Still nothing.

Welt after welt was formed on his backside, some cutting so deep they bled. A few caught his lower back and his thighs, still hurting just as much as the moments ticked on. He bit down so hard on his lip it bled, legs shaking and slowly going numb, his body aching from both the beating and the new trauma he was enduring now.

"SPEAK!" He yelled, suddenly, his features immediately bouncing back to normal in a heartbeat. He pressed it to his cheek again. "Isn't that what pets do? They obey, they do as they're told, don't they, John? You do whatever _Sherlock_ tells you, don't you?" He closed his eyes to distance himself from him, only to be struck again harder than before. "Have. You. Fucked. Him?"

"No," he croaked, trembling.

"Liar," he chuckled. "No matter, this'll hurt anyway."

He continued the abuse over and again, making him scream, laughing over them, at John. The skin was raw, torn and bleeding. John trembled, gasping, drenched in a sheen of sweat.

He raised the crop again, eyes excited and ready to strike him.

"_Ah, ah, ah, ah, Stayin' alive, stayin' alive…"_

He stopped, sigh turning into a growl. "One moment, darling, I have to take this."

John whimpered, breathing shakily, praying for Sherlock to save him.

"What?" The villain said, sounding bored.

_Sherlock, please...Please find me soon._

"I'M IN THE MIDDLE OF SOMETHING!" Jim roared, making John jump. "I'll be there, but I hope you realize you're losing another finger for this."

He pocketed the phone again, running the bloodied tip of the instrument up and down John's back. "Sorry, Johnny boy. Looks like we'll have to pick this up later."

John cried out when a syringe plunged into his neck.

"Well, now I wouldn't want you to be bored," he smiled, tossing the riding crop somewhere unseen. He strode out of the room, the other man following behind him.

John shivered, still trapped in that compromising position, his vision starting to swim.

"Sherlock," he breathed, tears welling in his eyes. "Sherlock, please help me. Please."


	4. Chapter 4

**A Message for Sherlock Holmes**

Dizzy, scared and so cold. The drugs tore through his system, leaving him more defenseless than he already was. The dark room covered him in a cold, damp blackness, images swimming through. Horrible visions of war and bloodshed, screaming faces of people he couldn't save. He shuddered, turning away from them, shaking his head and begging them to go away.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry… Please, don't hurt me!" He begged, shrinking away, the blood on his exposed skin only making the chill worse. He hid from the shadows, his dizzied state bringing his hallucinations to life.

A face came through the darkness, a face that didn't spark fear or pain, but longing and desperate need.

"Sherlock?" He whimpered. "Sherlock, please, help me!" He didn't move, didn't blink, didn't do anything. "Sh-Sherlock, please. I-I'm cold, everything hurts, please… Help me." Still nothing. He stepped closer, his dark clothes keeping him mostly invisible against the black backdrop. "Sherlock," he was crying now. "Please, I'm scared. Take me home, please. I just want to go home." He backed away, leaving him freezing, naked, terrified and in so much pain. "No, no! Sherlock, don't leave me!" He disappeared as quickly as he came, fading away. "Sherlock!" He sobbed. "Don't go! Please, come back!" Nothing. Dark. Dank. Alone. He cried into his arm, hiding his face, so scared. He wouldn't stop shaking, his heart constantly pounding, images swimming in front of his eyes.

Somewhere in the depths of his mind that were so desperately trying to break through his medical knowledge told him that he'd been given too much of this drug.

Not that it mattered now. He was too afraid, too busy focusing on not letting the pain and cold drive him mad to pay much attention to that. The loneliness in his heart was too much to handle as well. Sherlock was all he wanted, all he needed. He would be just fine if only…

"Sherlock, come back. Please, I want to go home, please…"

Hours of hell passed where horrors plagued his mind and invaded his senses, using the drug as their gateway to do so. Prayers for a savior, for Sherlock to take him away from this place whispered constantly, fruitless and wasted efforts. He tried focusing on memories of him, things that made him happy about the detective but found it impossible. His mind failed so miserably at the feat.

He cried out when the door opened again, a familiar figure skipping through the light.

"And how are we today, Johnny boy?" He asked happily. John kept his eyes closed, remnant tears not yet dry on his cheeks. Jim suddenly struck out, striking his damaged backside with a loud slap. John squealed in pain, writhing hopelessly in the restraints. "Yep, still too cute," he chuckled. "I hope you liked the little present I gave you. Has that worn off yet?" John shivered, giving a small nod. "Fun night, wasn't it?"

"No more," he begged. "Please." Jim laughed.

"Honey, we're just getting started!" He said excitedly. "So tell me, doctor…" He snapped impatiently. John whimpered as he was taken away, hauled back to the chains that held him upright. He sighed when he pulled his pants up, giving him his dignity back. "I forgot to ask you, why on _earth_ does Sherlock have this thing?" He said, twirling the riding crop once before setting it down. "It's not like he uses it for sex, does he?"

"That's none of your business," he growled, his voice too weak to sound threatening.

"Bow let's think a moment, John. You're half-naked, tied up and completely at my mercy. I think everything about you, or Sherlock for that matter, has officially been made my business. So what does he use it for?"

"Experiments," he breathed, shutting his eyes, weary.

"That's right. Of course, because he's _so smart_, isn't he? So _interesting_. Is that why you like him so much?" John was silent, eyes closed. "C'mon, John," he said softly, sparking a blow torch from the table, heating an iron rod in his hand. "Tell me, out of all these women you've had, why Sherlock Holmes?"

_He's gentle. He's brilliant, he's gorgeous and he makes me feel…_

No, he wasn't about to tell him that. It didn't matter, why did he need to know? No, no…

"Tell me," he warned. "Tell me or I'll have to hurt you again." John watched the glow of the metal, metal that would sear and melt his skin.

"I just, I just do." Jim sighed, shaking his head.

"I'm starting to wonder if you enjoy this."

John shrieked when the fire poker came in contact with his bare flesh, a sizzling sound filling the room. "_NO!_ AHHN!"

"I told you," Jim shrugged, twisting the object into his skin before pulling away. The doctor gasped raggedly, tears of pain in his eyes. "Now go on," Jim urged, smirking. "Why do you love Sherlock?"

"He was there," he breathed, teeth grinding. "He was there when I was alone."

"Now we're getting somewhere." He jabbed him with the scorching instrument; more screams from its victim, making it harder for him to keep his tears at bay. "Why else?"

"He-he makes me smile- GUHN!"

"You can do better than that!" He challenged.

"Please," he gasped before he was screaming again, the acrid smell of burning flesh filling his nostrils gagging him.

"Come on…" He urged, twisting it into his bicep. John shut his eyes, trembling from pain and cold, taking heaving gulps for air when the poker was taken away.

"What do you want me to say?" He shivered. "No, no, wait, WAIT!" More shrieking tearing at his throat.

"Just ANSWER THE QUESTION!" The villain bellowed, ripping it away. He was shuddering, tears so close to falling, body pulsating with pain.

"Wh-when I saw him for the first time I wanted to be with him…f-forever. I w-wanted him in my life and I didn't kn-know why for awhile. I-I can't be without him now, I c-can't. I don't know when it h-happened or how but one d-day I looked at him and I…I knew I l-loved him."

Silence fell, save for John's labored breaths and the quiet sizzle of the fire poker heating up again.

"Good enough." A beat later Jim burned him again, grinning wildly.

"NO! PLEHEASE! I DID WHAT YOU SAID! I DID WHAT YOU SAID, PLEASE!" He screamed.

"And when did I say answering my question would make it stop?" He asked, pushing it into his inner thigh.

"STOP! OH GOD, PLEASE!" He screamed, shuddering, tears on his cheeks, acrid bile rising to his throat that he quickly swallowed, writhing in desperation to get away, his flesh still burning horribly under the treatment, cold air like knives against the preexisting wounds.

"Come on, beg for him," Moriarty dared. "You know you want to" He sobbed harshly, screaming again, pleading hopelessly. "Say it. Go on, call him."

"_SHERLOOOCK!" _ He shrieked, voice coarse. "SHERLOCK PLEASE HELP ME! MAKE HIM STOP! SHERLOCK!"

"Alright, that's enough."

John fell limp in the chains, unable to support himself, slicked in sweat, blood and tears, trembling, whimpering softly. He heard something tear before something was slapped over his lips, silencing him.

"Don't worry, John, I'm helping you. Maybe if you can't talk you'll stop talking to people that aren't there. He'll never hear you, never find you. Not until I allow him too."

John cried out when the needle went into his arm, shaking his head, pleading with his eyes. "Now, on with the fun!"

* * *

><p>The doctor woke with a start, gasping, pain overcoming him almost instantly and sending him back into the sheets. His hands clambered through the darkness, desperate to find Sherlock.<p>

"Shh," a voice said through the black. Familiar, gentle, loving hands touched his cheeks. "I've got you, John. I'm here."

John buried his fevered face in his chest, clinging to him as tight as he could. "Sh-Sherlock."

"Right here. It's okay, he can't hurt you anymore," he whispered, kissing his temple.

"Sorry I woke you," he whispered.

"Never slept, darling. You have nightmares every night without this kind of trauma. I wasn't about to let you go through this alone. I won't leave you." John looked up at him, seeing his swollen eyes even in this darkness. He'd been crying.

"Sherlock," he whispered, touching his cheek.

"I'm okay," he said firmly. "I'm fine."

"Why do you think he did this?" He whispered. Sherlock frowned.

"You know why he did it."

"I know what he told me, that's all," he mumbled. Sherlock rubbed the back of his head, holding him possessively, kissing his forehead.

"It's a warning to stay away. He's planning something big soon and wants me to stay out of it. He knows hurting you will not only cause me to stop, but injure me as well. Seeing you in pain hurts me more than anything else. It's just another threat," he explained.

John frowned, staring at him. "Hurt you? How can I hurt you?" Sherlock sighed, shaking his head.

"Isn't it obvious? I love you, John. I've never cared for another living soul as much as I care for you. He knows that. Taking you away from me will break me." He finally met his gaze right as John was leaning toward him, softly, chastely, pressing their lips together. Sherlock held him tighter, cradling his face, soothing him to sleep.

"I love you too," the doctor whispered. Sherlock smiled a little.

"Go to sleep, John," he said gently.

"Don't make me," he begged, an edge of overwhelming fear in his voice. "Please." Sherlock's heart clenched. "I can't take the nightmares, Sherlock, I can't. I can't keep remembering what he did, please."

"Shh, shh, easy…" He said, caressing his face. "Shh…just close your eyes and listen to my voice." John obliged without hesitation, still willing and ready to trust Sherlock without question. "I want you to breathe very slowly, alright? With me, in…out…in…and out…in…out…" He continued the pattern until John was totally relaxed. "I want you to think of something that makes you feel peaceful, something that makes you feel totally at ease, that makes you happy."

"Staying in with you," he breathed. Another jab to Sherlock's heart.

"Right, perfect," he said, voice clear and unfazed. "That's what we're doing right now. No case, no interruptions just you blogging and laughing while I watch crap telly and yell at the screen." John smiled, eyes still closed.

"And this is when you ask me if I want to go to dinner even though-"

"I'm not hungry," he nodded, smiling back. "Just keep breathing, keeping thinking about that. In…out…in…" It didn't take long for John to drift off again, peaceful, free of nightmares, content. "I've got you John. Just stay here with me."

His phone buzzed on the table; a text from Mycroft.

_2:46 a.m. (Mycroft)_

_We found the man that helped him._

_2:46 a.m. _

_Where?_

_2:47 a.m. (Mycroft) _

_You know where._

He sighed, staring at his phone for a moment, looking between it and John.

"I won't be long," he assured, carefully lying John down, prying him from his arms. "Shh, shh, I'll be back, John. I promise." A soft kiss on his forehead before he was rushing downstairs, fiery, boiling rage welling in his stomach and rising to his eyes.

Blood would be shed tonight.

* * *

><p>"He said he would only speak to you," Mycroft explained, hand positioned carefully on the doorknob.<p>

"Did he say why?" He asked softly.

"No." Sherlock stared at the door. "Are you sure you can do this?"

"Yes," he said truthfully. "But if you expect me to go in there with a promise that I won't kill him then I might as well leave now."

"I don't," he said, still calm, collected, Mycroft. "I wouldn't have called you here otherwise. I know you better, little brother." He stepped back, giving him permission to go inside.

Sherlock took a breath, and entered.

The man's size alone was impressive. His posture, clothing and everything else about him proved that he was anything but, hardly had the intellect to be a petty criminal, let alone someone working with a mastermind. He glanced at Sherlock as he approached. "'Bout time," he said, voice low, gravelly.

The detective sat across from him, expression blank.

"You have something to say to me?"

"Bit odd he wanted me to take Dr. Watson and not you, eh?"

"He knew what taking John would do."

"Made you squirm, di'n't it?" He asked, smirking a little. "Knowin' all the unholy things he was doin' to the good doctor, eh?"

"What is the point of this?"

"Why do you think he did this?" He said, ignoring him again.

"He's planning something, something soon that he wants me to stay out of."

The man started to laugh, shaking his head. "So clever, aren't ya?"

"What is the point of all of this?" He demanded, angry.

"I'm only supposed to do what he told me to," he explained.

"What he told you to. What did he tell you to do? Where is he?"

"D'ya know how they got me here?" He challenged, eyeing Sherlock, grinning. "I just walked right in, mate. Why do ya think I did that then?" Sherlock didn't answer, the blood draining from his face. "You an' I both know where he is, don't we, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock stood, running for the door. "TELL DR. WATSON I SAID HELLO!"

His cackles echoed down the hall after him as Sherlock ran as fast as he could, knowing he would never get to Baker Street in time.


	5. Chapter 5

**A Message for Sherlock Holmes**

He'd never get there in time, never. But that didn't stop him from trying. The villain probably went inside mere moments after Sherlock left. How did he not anticipate that? How did a so-called genius like himself not know what would happen because of this? How?

_Doesn't matter. Helping John matters._

_You wouldn't have to help him if you hadn't left him in the first place._

He didn't argue. It was true.

He dove out of the cab when it stopped, throwing too much money at the driver before barreling inside and clambering up the stairs.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson said drowsily, peering through the door at him. "D'you know what time it is?"

"Mrs. Hudson, go back downstairs," Sherlock hissed, everything in his being trying to get him to keep running.

"Sher-"

"GO!" She jumped, backing away quickly while Sherlock slammed the door behind him and rushed upstairs. "JOHN!"

He froze.

"Well, it's about time."

John's hands were cuffed, and hitched around Moriarty's neck, wearing nothing but a bloody undershirt, duct tape over his eyes this time. He trembled and gasped softly, every word carved into his skin a few days ago reopened and scarlet, striking against his skin. It was the gun pressed to his temple that kept Sherlock from stepping any closer.

"Now, John, don't be rude. Say hello," The villain smirked, looking directly into his eyes.

"Sh-Sherlock," he whimpered. His stomach lurched, nerves _itching_ to take him away from this. To fight to get him away. But he couldn't. One step and…

"That's an odd sort of greeting," he grinned, laughing. "Such a funny little thing you've got here, Sherlock."

"Let him go," he breathed, wishing his voice was stronger. "He has nothing to do with this, let him go."

"But Sherlock," he smiled, tapping under John's chin with the muzzle of the gun. "He's such a cute little bargaining chip, don't you think?" John whimpered again, wishing he could look in Sherlock's eyes for assurance. "Sorry about the tape, but I know you guys have your little telepathic conversations when you look at each other. Can't have that."

"What do you want?" Sherlock yelled, knowing he was showing weakness.

"To make sure you truly understand something," he said simply, his free hand on John's upper thigh. "When I say back off…" John squealed, writhing away when Jim grabbed something that wasn't his.

"Sherlock!" He sobbed.

"…I mean it."

"STOP! Stop, please, this has nothing to do with him—"

He squeezed again. "YOU'RE NOT LISTENING!" He bellowed over John's scream. "I need you to back off, completely. And if this is what I have to do to make sure you stay away from my informants, away from my projects and far away from me. Do you understand now?" He said darkly.

"Yes. I completely understand. Please…let him go."

"As soon as I'm safe," he chuckled, stepping toward the door. "Any parting words for John?" He grinned, seeing the horror in Sherlock's expression.

"Yes," he breathed. "Vatican cameos."

John tugged as hard as he could on his neck, flipping him over and away from him. Sherlock rushed forward, catching him and snatching the gun off the floor before Jim fully understood what was happening to him.

"Well, look at you two!" He giggled, standing swiftly, dusting himself off. "Whole little system worked out, haven't you?"

"You can leave and I will not follow you but you're not taking John with you. I won't allow you to torture him anymore," Sherlock said darkly, supporting him with one arm, the gun in the other, which he promptly dropped.

Jim grinned. "Just wanted to see what you'd do. I don't have any use for him." He turned, shaking his head. "Don't make me remind you again, Sherlock," he warned. "Wouldn't want to have to mount John's head in my living room, now would I?"

Sherlock didn't move for roughly ten minutes after he was gone, being absolutely sure. John clung to his arm, panting, shuddering, so afraid that it wasn't over.

When the detective was absolutely sure he wouldn't be back he took a deep breath, carefully lowering him to the floor. "Shh, shh, it's alright. It's alright. Hold still, shh, shh…" He carefully peeled the tape from his eyes, running his fingers through his hair and holding him close. He tore his coat off again, draping it over him, gently touching his cheeks. "I'm here. I've got you. I'm gonna call you an ambulance, alright? Shh. He won't hurt you anymore. You did so well, you were so _brave_ John. Shh…" He kissed his forehead, still holding his face. "Shh, everything will be alright, soon. I promise."

"Sherlock," he breathed, swallowing hard.

"I'm right here. Right here, I won't leave you. Shh…" He dug his phone out of his pocket. "Lestrade…no…SHUT UP! Listen to me, I need your help…"

John kept his fingers laced in Sherlock's, hanging on to him as tightly as he could, trembling. He kept his eyes locked with Sherlock's, knowing he'd be safe here with him. He swallowed hard, shaking a little. "Sherlock," he whispered.

"Shh, it's alright. It's okay. Shh…"

"He-he gave m-me more…" He glanced at his arm, shuddering.

"Alright, alright, it'll be alright, shh…" He kissed his forehead, setting his phone on the floor. "It's alright. It's okay. It'll be alright soon. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I left you here. I was only gone for a moment."

"I-I'm alright."

"You're bleeding, you…look what he did to you. It's my fault…" He shook his head. John didn't need this. He gently lifted him into his arms, rocking him slowly. "Shh, hush, hush. It's alright. I've got you now, it's alright. Shh…"

He heard the sirens approaching. "It'll be better soon. They'll take care of you properly. It'll be alright, John." He kissed his forehead, never looking away from him.

"I-I know," John stammered, offering a shadow of his patient, gentle smile.

Sherlock's heart twisted again.

* * *

><p>Wearing him to the breaking point was easy. Between the humiliating questions and punishments, the verbal and emotional torture as well as the constant pain all tied together with the onslaught of drugs made it child's play to shatter what Sherlock had once called his nerves of steel.<p>

"Stop it, please!" He begged, words lost in the gag. He was lying on his stomach, screaming as the monster cut into his skin.

"Why? I'm just putting the proper labels where they go, John! You are Sherlock's _bitch_-" He dug harder, "aren't you?"

John cried into the concrete, his legs and back bleeding. He knew what they said. Jim told him precisely what the letter he'd written to Sherlock said.

"Come on, won't it be such a lovely surprise. What I wouldn't give to see the look on his face…" He sighed, kicking John over, smirking down at him. "I think we're done now," he grinned, bending to lightly slap his cheek. "Yes, perfect." He took the undershirt from his assistant, roughly shoving it back on him.

John continued to cry as he was tied back up, so weak and exhausted.

"I'll let him find you now," Jim grinned, taking the dog tags from the table and twirling them on his finger. John looked at them, desperate for something from his life before this to hang on to. Something to remind him that he wasn't such a pathetic excuse for a human being. Wasn't such a coward. "Don't want you to be bored, though."

_Sherlock, help. _He squealed when the needle was pressed into his vein.

"Bye-bye, Johnny. It's been fun…"

John trembled , wishing he could speak, wishing he could stop crying.

He was left alone in the dark again, his stomach empty, throat dry, heart aching for his love. That was all he wanted, all he needed.

He hung there, drenched in sweat and blood, shivering head to toe. His nerves hummed from the electricity, skin radiating heat and agony. Blood drizzled and dripped down from each letter, a beaten, broken mess for Sherlock to find.

As he fell into the haze of the drug he tried to think of something that made him even remotely happy, something that warmed his heart and told him this was worth it.

"_John." _

_I didn't look up from my computer as I spoke. "What?" _

"_Nothing," he said blandly. "I…" He cleared his throat. "I, wanted to tell you I…" He shook his head, determined, trying to force himself to speak. "I love you."_

_My head snapped up immediately, trying to be sure I heard him correctly. "What?" He swallowed hard, peering at him over his steeped fingers. _

"_I said…I said I love you," he repeated, trying to be firm. His eyes gave him away. I could only sit there, mouth agape, staring at him. _

"_Is…is this an experiment?" I breathed, shaking my head. _

"_No," he said, cool eyes never leaving my own. "I'm not playing any games with you, John. Now please, I'm not very good at this sort of thing and Mrs. Hudson said I should just—" _

"_You talked to Mrs. Hudson about this?" _

"_That I should just tell you!" He said over me. "So there, I told you. End of conversation." _

_He shut his eyes, lying back down on the couch, shutting his eyes and sighing shortly. _

_He felt stupid for saying it, I know he did. He felt foolish, and like I didn't believe him or thought it was funny. _

_I didn't, though._

_I set the computer down, stepping over to him. I sat down beside him, cupping his cheek. He opened his eyes, revealing a deep level of vulnerability and fear. _

"_I love you too." I said gently, bending to kiss him. He smiled a little when I broke away, stroking his curls back. "And I'm glad you told me." He sighed again, happy this time and shut his eyes once more. _

"_Love you, John," he whispered. _

"_I love you, Sherlock." _

_I moved to get up when he wrapped his arms around my waist. "Stay. Please. Your blog can wait." I chuckled, positioning myself on the couch so we were wrapped up together, my hands inside his robe, feeling his heart and absorbing his warmth. _

"_When did you decide cuddling was worth your time?" I asked, genuinely curious, partially teasing. He shrugged. _

"_When I discovered how soft and warm you are," he said simply. "Being near you like this releases endorphins. It feels much better than any nicotine patch or cigarette could. And you touch back. I didn't know I wanted this until I had it," he whispered, slightly ashamed that he enjoyed an emotion. I smiled, kissing the top of his head. _

"_Go ahead then. I'll be here."_

John cried, so cold, wishing Sherlock's warmth was there now, telling him he loved him with that light blush in his cheeks. "Help me, Sherlock," he whispered. "Let me tell you I love you again."

He fell limp in the chains, sobbing to nothing, exhausted and broken. The sound of his broken heart echoing through the room.


	6. Chapter 6

**A Message for Sherlock Holmes**

Pacing. Totally silent and never speaking a word to anyone. Not to his brother who asked him half a dozen questions, not Lestrade, not Donovan, not anyone. The only acknowledgment he gave to another living soul was the small glance he gave Mrs. Hudson when she pushed a cup of coffee in his hand.

"So what are they doin' in there?" She said, sitting in front of him. "You took care of him, didn't you? Oh, of course you did, you love that man."

"Detox," Sherlock rasped.

She nodded, lips pursed."You want to talk about what happened upstairs?"

"No," he snapped, not looking at her. She sighed, watching him pace, a large animal in a small space, a ball of energy bouncing around a jar desperate to escape to find some peace in the open air surrounding it.

"How about what you're thinking about, you wanna talk about that?" She asked, just trying to make him feel better.

"No."

She sighed, shutting her eyes. "Alright, Sherlock. Alright. Just trying to help." She looked up when she felt a hand on her shoulder. His head bowed, staring at the floor, still not speaking. She smiled, patting his hand. "Be patient, love. He'll be alright. I promise."

Continued pacing. Back, forth, back, forth, back and forth, over and over again until he forgot what he was doing and where he was. Thinking back to John. Amazing, sweet, beautiful, wonderful John that had transformed him from a machine to something close to human. Something that felt and breathed and loved. Something that only did that with one person but it was a start. He made him see beauty in the world again, wondrous things that surrounded him. A person he could talk to, could be himself with without the harsh judgments and cruelties of the other world. Someone that appreciated his mind and his work. The first person that called him brilliant without sounding sarcastic or as if he were something to be put under surveillance to be studied.

John respected him, trusted him and was the pinnacle of loyal even from their first day of knowing each other. He killed for him that first day.

Sherlock Holmes was a different man because of him. Because of the courageous, patient, tidy doctor in that room.

And he'd done nothing but give him a hobby and get him hurt like this. What he wouldn't give to be better for him. To give him half of what he'd received. Instead he had his named carved into his skin by a madman that took far too much joy in it.

"Mr. Holmes?" He looked up at the doctor, not his, approaching him. "He's stabilized and resting now, and he should be sleeping but he won't stop asking for you."

He found himself smiling even though he shouldn't be. Not because it was amusing, but because it was just so_ John_. Such a _John_ thing to do. He left Mrs. Hudson, who was sleeping soundly in the same chair and had been for some time. He'd been pacing longer than he anticipated. The doctor led him around the corner and for the love of _God_ Sherlock wished he'd go faster.

_John, John, John._ He couldn't focus on anything else. The usual onslaught of observations of the passerby were all replaced with his name, with this desire to have him in front of him again where he could keep a personal eye on him to be certain nothing could possibly go wrong. Not on his watch. If John wasn't in his line of sight he could get him again. The ninety five percent of the logical sector of his mind told him Moriarty wouldn't take him again. He was done with John for now. But the fear, the doubt, the utter panic that flooded the remaining five percent made him want to scream at this white-coated man to just tell him the room number so he could run to him like he wanted.

John was lying in the bed, propped on a few pillows he'd obviously put there himself because God knows how they were trying to get him to sleep, his eyes swollen from tears, stress and fatigue. He smiled gently when he saw him.

Sherlock exhaled, shaking his head. Still able to smile after everything. "You look like hell," he croaked. He sat beside him, looking him over. John's hands were shaking, face drenched in sweat. The withdrawal symptoms were starting to set in.

"How are you?" He said, sitting beside him, nervous. John shrugged.

"Been better. Keep seeing the Queen walking around."

"Withdrawal symptoms," he said simply, keeping the pain out of his voice. John nodded, reaching out to touch Sherlock's hair, his hands shaking horribly.

"It's over now, right?"

Sherlock nodded, leaning into his touch, placing his own hand over his. "Yes."

"And you're...you're really not going to go after him anymore?" He wondered, shutting his eyes briefly to dissipate a hallucination.

"Never," he answered quickly. He shook his head.

"Sherlock, someone's got to stop him. Don't let me hold you back I'm not as important as that is-"

"You're everything."

John softened, his eyes misting. "No. No, I'm just an former army doctor with a blog. You, you're-"

"Not human," he whispered. "You're absolutely everything to me. I'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. To hell with the rest. You're all I care about." John stared at him, sore and fighting the medicine trying to drag him into sleep.

"What happened to being married to your work?" He whispered, trying not to cry. He shook his head, meeting his eyes.

"And the work is only worth it when I have you. You make it worth it, John. And I love you." He gently pressed his lips to his, running his fingers through his hair, kissing all over his face, really. "Now go to sleep, darling."

"But I...I want to see you," he whimpered.

"Shh," he soothed, holding his face. "I'll be right here when you wake up. Just go to sleep."

"Promise you won't leave me?"

He looked at him for a beat,his mind reliving every solitary second of the previous night, of what he'd done to John in a single second. "I swear to you I will not leave you again."

Their fingers were laced together as John finally fell asleep. Sherlock stared at him, at his sweet blogger, dumbfounded.

"What did I do to deserve you?" He wondered.

* * *

><p>"<em>You should sleep."<em>

_I looked up from the mountain of papers in front of me. "Sherlock, I'm looking for a particular web address in this massive list of web addresses. This is no time for me to sleep," I sighed. "I know that, you know that, so why are we even talking about this?" _

"_Because...because I can do that no problem if...if you need to sleep," he said softly. I frowned, looking at him. _

"_What are you on about? What's going on with you?" I demanded. _

"_Nothing," he said quickly. Much too quickly. _

"_Sherlock, do you care about me?" _

"_You'll be of no use to me if you're too tired to think. Now go get some sleep," he said firmly, eyes closed, legs crossed, hands folded as if in prayer. _

"_No, no, that's not it," I said, shaking my head. "No, you care. And it's not because of that." _

"_How do you know?" _

"_You don't blush when you ask me to eat while we're on a case or anything of the sort and you're blushing right now you...Oh." I stared at him, smiling, shaking my head. _

"_What?" _

"_Oh, I get it." _

"_No you don't. Stop it." _

_I looked at him from across the table. Realizing. Realizing something I should've seen months before. Something I should've noticed before. "Sherlock..." _

"_It's alright if you...if you don't-" He shook his head, frustrated. "Just go to sleep, John." _

"_Why didn't you tell me before, you perfect idiot?" _

_I lunged forward, meeting his lips for the first time. He gasped, taking a moment before kissing me back properly, his fingers trailing over my cheek and my neck. _

"_I didn't think you wanted-" _

"_Never asked a second time, did you?" I gasped, kissing again. _

"_You always say you're not my-" _

"_Well, then why don't we go to dinner even though you're not hungry and I'll tell Angelo I'm your date?" _

"_Or-or we could stay in," he offered. "And we could keep doing...doing this." _

"_One condition," I managed through his mouth. _

"_What?" He whined, wanting me to be quiet. _

"_We get the damn table out of the way." _

_He came around it, scrambling, grabbing my waist and pulling me closer. "Mm, who knew I had such good taste in doctors." _

_That's what it took. That's what it took for me to let myself care about him romantically. I had to know he cared. _

_And if anyone deserved to be cared for, deserved love it was Sherlock. Because he had a heart. _

_And he had feelings for me._

_Which is why I'd go to the ends of the earth to protect him._

**END**_  
><em>


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